


Flirting Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

by peevee



Series: How To Get What You Want and Want What You Have [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sexting, Texting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft flirts, is a creepy voyeur, and has a really very filthy mouth, and John takes everything in his stride.</p><p>
  <i>“Oh well, you know how it sometimes is,” His voice is velvety smooth, “you have those days when you’re suddenly overwhelmed by utter recklessness. Side effect of my job, I believe.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flirting Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise unreservedly for this filth. Hope you enjoy :)

When he receives the first one, the initial thing he feels is relief.

_Thank you, Sherlock._

He is in a trendy little café near Shoreditch partaking in what might be the Most Awkward Lunch Ever with Clara. It has both of them wincing when the wine list is brought out, dancing clumsily around sore topics of conversation, those topics being the only thing they really have in common to begin with, and enduring lengthy awkward silences that even have the waitress looking uncomfortable when she comes to collect John’s empty espresso cup and Clara’s half finished cappuccino. 

His relief quickly turns to something else – holy _shit_ , what- when he actually reads the contents of the text. Not Sherlock then. Or, if it is Sherlock he can only hope that he is the unwilling participant in some sort of experiment in vulgarity.

Clara is looking at him askance, he can’t imagine what the expression on his face might be, and he shoves the phone back into his pocket with a feigned eye-roll. 

“Sherlock?” She looks relieved, he doesn’t have the energy to feel offended.

“Sherlock,” he confirms, excuse not about to be wasted.

“Right, well,” there’s a shuffling, clumsy moment where both of them go for a handshake, then a hug, then John is smiling awkwardly and promising to be in touch and Clara is saying “Lovely to see you, we should do this more often,” looking like the last thing she wants to do is see any Watson ever again. He finds himself eventually sitting on the Circle Line trundling through Euston Square, his phone heavy in the pocket of his jeans. 

He takes it out again to look at the text. 

Sender: [unknown number], and how do you even block your number when sending a text? 

**I’m going to take your  
** cock in my mouth and  
suck you until you come  
down my throat. 

Probably - no, _definitely_ a wrong number. He texts back,

_**think youve got a wrong  
number! :)** _

The reply comes in seconds,

**No I haven’t, John.**

He stares at the screen for a bit, and then puts his phone back in his pocket. The train shudders into Baker St station, and he mulls over the possibilities presented on his way back to 221B. Sherlock? No, Sherlock wouldn’t bother texting him if he had the sudden urge to do…that, never mind anonymously. Probably John would find himself shoved up against the table, or the fridge, or wherever else Sherlock had deemed an appropriate venue, trousers round his ankles with no idea how he got there. That was the way with Sherlock, generally.

He can’t really think of anyone else who might want to send him anonymous explicit texts at noon on a Wednesday, although, he considers, when _is_ the appropriate time to send anonymous explicit texts? 

“Sherlock! Have you been sexting me?”

Sherlock glares at him from over the top of an Erlenmeyer flask as he toes his shoes off next to the door and drops his coat on one of the kitchen chairs. “What? No. Go away, I’m trying to make sure this doesn’t explode.”

The liquid inside the flask bubbles ominously as Sherlock pokes ineffectually at the hole in his Bunsen burner, trying to close it without burning his fingers. His goggles are pushed up over his forehead making him look like even more of a mad scientist than usual, and his hair sticks out from the elastic in haphazard tufts, giving him the general aura of an angry cat. An angry, mad cat-scientist.

“Away. Go.”

“No, I’m making tea. Do you want some?”

Sherlock sighs with an air of supreme suffering, it’s his _why-must-i-deal-with-such-idiocy_ sigh. John is pretty much immune to it at this stage. 

“Yes, yes, fine. Do it quietly, if you must.” He pokes again at the air hole as the liquid begins to slowly rise up in the flask. It is an extremely bright shade of fuchsia-pink, much the same as the colour favoured by Jennifer Wilson. Sherlock stirs it, and with great delicacy begins to spoon some kind of white powder into the mix.

John cheerfully clatters the mugs onto the countertop, banging them around loudly and whistling the theme to Match of The Day, missing the high note each time. He can practically feel Sherlock’s death-glare burning into the back of his neck.

“Better keep an eye on that, looks dangerous,” he points out helpfully, and when Sherlock just growls, adds, “Also, when you’re done, come and look at this text someone sent me earlier. Maybe you can figure out who sent it.” He plonks Sherlock’s mug next to his left arm and moves into the living room to pick up this morning’s Guardian. 

“Texts. Boring. I’ll be busy all day, work it out yourself.”

John hums in acquiescence as he flicks through the arts section. Finding nothing of interest, he pulls his phone from his back pocket to look at the second text.

**No I haven’t, John.**

Spending time around Sherlock, John thinks, makes you almost immune to feeling creeped out when strangers know anything from your name to the precise question mark shape of the scar on your hip.

He presses _reply_ ,

__**how do you block a  
number on a text? im  
curious**

He sips his tea and reads about Carey Mulligan’s sex life, contentedly listening to Sherlock swearing under his breath in the kitchen. His phone buzzes.

**Resourcefulness. I’m  
** going to finger you  
mercilessly until  
you’re begging me  
to fuck you. 

_**so youre a man then** _

**Not necessarily.  
** I’ll hold you open with  
my thumbs and lick you,  
fucking you with my  
tongue until you come  
all over yourself. 

At this point John is feeling quite unnervingly flustered, and he sticks the phone back in his pocket and squirms a little in his seat. 

“Sherlock?”

“WHAT?” He sounds slightly manic. 

“Is it possible to withhold your number when texting someone?”

“Of course, just difficult. Stop bothering me.”

John ignores this, “Who do we know who could do it, do you reckon?”

Sherlock huffs, not looking away from his experiment. “Moriarty, probably, my insufferable brother, definitely, and me.” He quirks his head to the side in a show of sudden interest, “Is Moriarty sexting you?”

John considers, and then shakes his head dismissively. 

“Don’t think so. His idea of erotic texts would probably involve describing exactly how he’d like to disembowel me and feed me my own entrails.”

“Bring it here,” Sherlock sticks out his hand imperiously, expertly catching the phone as it flies through the air towards his head. He looks at the final text for about half a second before an expression of extreme disgust crosses his features and he throws the phone back as if unwilling to touch it any longer.

“Ugh, my brother is _flirting_ with you, how repulsive.”

He wipes his hands on his lab coat, shuddering, before announcing to the room at large, “And stop _watching_ him, Mycroft, it’s beyond disturbing when you do that.”

John’s eyes dart about the room unconsciously, looking for hidden cameras.

“He’s probably got one in your room, you know,” Sherlock says offhandedly. He’s already engrossed in his experiment again.

“Right,” John says, “I’m going to go and…sit in the bathroom.”

“There’s no escape from him!” Sherlock calls through the open door. 

John climbs gingerly into the bath, and pulls the shower curtain all the way round, until he’s completely obscured. He leans back against the taps, unfolding his legs and wishing he’d brought a pillow, before sending a text,

_**can you see me?** _

The reply comes almost immediately,

**No. You’re such a  
spoilsport, John.**

__**im spoiling your  
sport of spying on me  
am i?**

**It’s hardly spying if  
you know I’m doing it.**

__**couldnt you just  
have asked me out or  
something?**

**And where would the  
** fun be in that? If I was  
there now, I’d hook your  
leg over the side of the  
bath and watch you make  
yourself come.  
I know you’re hard. 

_**thought you wernr  
spying onme** _

It’s harder than he thinks it should be to text with one hand, especially when one of his legs is hooked over the side of the bath and his dominant hand is otherwise engaged.

**I would lean over  
** just as you were starting  
to climax, and drink  
everything down. I’d  
suck you dry. 

A noise escapes John, a sort of breathy _Hngh!_ and his phone buzzes seconds later.

**Oh, yes. I heard  
** that. Then I would bend  
you over the side of the  
bath, you’d be so spent  
you would do anything I  
asked of you. I’d take  
you slowly, wetly until  
you were ready to come  
again at the slightest  
touch. 

John is gasping now, unable to stifle his shuddering inward breaths as he squirms within the ceramic confines of the bath. His last thought is of Mycroft Holmes sitting in his wood panelled office, legs spread, watching security camera footage of a shower curtain on his laptop, with one perfectly manicured hand shoved into his perfectly pressed trousers. He comes with a bitten off moan all over his fingers, and slumps backwards, almost concussing himself on the taps as he jerks through the aftershocks.

He lies supine for a long moment, panting, and then spurs himself into action. After washing his hands off and pulling back the shower curtain to sit on the edge of the bath he pulls out his phone. There’s one new message,

**Tonight. Don’t be shy.**

~

He manages, he thinks, to act mostly normally for the rest of the day. He tries to talk to Sherlock a couple of times, but succeeds mostly in getting objects thrown at him from the kitchen along with shouts of “Deleted! _Deleted!_ ”

Sherlock finally sweeps out in a flurry of coat and hair at seven, claiming work. John offers to tag along but Sherlock dismisses him,

“I’ve negotiations requiring some delicacy in a private matter, John, don’t trouble yourself.”

John takes this to mean he’s going to the boxing club Sherlock doesn’t know John knows about to work out some latent frustration at John, Mycroft and all other idiots that persist in haranguing him. He’ll then spend most of the night prowling the city in a fit of pique before slinking back to 221B in the early hours, inevitably waking John up and demanding food and tea.

In light of this, John makes twice as much paella as he needs and leaves out the red peppers, which Sherlock refuses to eat. He then deposits half of it in a bowl covered in cling film in the centre of the kitchen table while he curls up on the chair and watches repeats of Have I Got News For You. He’s busy sucking sauce from a fiddly langoustine when his phone buzzes ominously.

**You look as delicious  
as your paella.**

_**stop that you  
creepy bastard** _

And so what if he makes a bit more of a show of licking his fingers after each prawn drips sloppily all over his hands? He bites a piece of chicken delicately, baring his teeth at the room at large and tonguing his incisors. 

**Mmm.**

John resists the urge to a) retire to his bedroom at 9pm or b) shove his hand into his trousers in the middle of the living room. Just because Sherlock normally wouldn’t be back until the morning doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t bound back in energetically just when John has his jeans round his ankles. In fact, it’s practically asking for it. 

Instead, he exercises supreme self-control, eating the rest of his paella at a leisurely pace before stretching out on the sofa and starting on the crossword. Mycroft must be feeling particularly impatient; it’s only about twenty minutes before he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket again.

**32 down, Prioritised.**

_**piss off** _

**14 across, Valencia.**

_**piss. off. relaxing.** _

**Glad I’m inspiring you  
** to make use of that most  
glorious of punctuation  
marks, the period. Your  
use of the English  
language pains me,  
John. 

__**it wont be paining  
you later unless you like  
that sort of thing**

**Gosh. Bold words.**

He sets down the phone and finishes the crossword, filling the spaces where he doesn’t know the answer with random words just to be annoying. He makes an elaborate show of stretching when he’s done, and spends ages tidying up the living room and cleaning his teeth. He can practically sense the impatience radiating from his phone. 

He finally meanders up to his room at just past ten, strips to his boxers and flops back onto the bed on top of the duvet. His phone starts ringing immediately.

“Mycroft.”

“John.” He can hear the smile in the word. “I do dislike to text, it’s so uncouth.”

“ _Your_ texts are certainly uncouth.”

“Mm, yes. You inspire a certain something in me, it has to be said.”

“So,” he smooths a hand down his belly, “why today?”

“Oh well, you know how it sometimes is,” his voice is velvety smooth, “you have those days when you’re suddenly overwhelmed by utter recklessness. Side effect of my job, I believe.”

“I reckon I do know, yeah.”

“It seems my moment of rashness was well-received though, no?”

“Mm.”

“I meant what I said earlier, you do look completely delicious.” He lets out a contented little sigh. “Would you take those off for me?”

“These?” John thumbs around the waistband of his boxers, squirming slightly. “Okay then.”

He sets the phone down for a moment and hitches his hips up to pull his underwear down and off, stretching his legs out as he does so and parting them slightly. He feels absolutely decadent. He picks the phone back up.

“Where’s your camera, then?”

“You’re assuming there’s only one.”

“The one you’re watching from then, Mr Pedantic. The main one, anyway.”

“Above the wardrobe, upper left hand corner. Yes, that’s it. Hello.” The last word is a purr, John can hear the lazy satisfaction seeping into his words.

“Hello.” He gives a little wave, hears Mycroft huff a laugh.

“I could just watch you all night like this, John. Look at you.”

“I’d rather look at you. Where are you? What are you wearing? And in fact,” he adds, “I bet you _have_ watched me like this before. Yes?”

“So many questions. I’m at my home, I am not wearing anything, and yes, I have watched you before.”

“Been watching for long?”

Mycroft laughs, “John, I have been watching you since before you knew I existed, surely you know that.”

“Obviously.” John attempts a passable imitation at Sherlock’s exasperated _you-are-all-morons_ tone, “Watching with _interest_ for long, is what I meant.”

“I see. I believe the answer would be the same.”

“You are such a voyeur.”

“One has to make do with one’s lot in life, John. I merely choose to revel in mine.” He sounds like the cat that got the canary _and_ the cream.

“You’re literally Big Brother aren’t you? Except sexier. Are you touching yourself?”

“I’m finding it increasingly difficult to resist, seeing you spread out on your bed like that.”

“Don’t resist.”

“Very well.” There is an almost inaudible hitch in his breathing, “I can see that you’re enjoying being observed.” His tone is _filthy._

John is enjoying it. He’s half-hard already, and he can feel his cock twitching slightly, heat prickling the base of his spine. He keeps his touches light, leisurely, one hand smoothing down his stomach and ghosting over the top of his thigh whilst the other holds the phone in place. He spreads his legs a little more, and hears Mycroft make a soft noise of interest. He’s practically squirming on the bed now, the cotton cover of the duvet suddenly exquisite on his sensitised skin and the thought of Mycroft watching him is making him want to display himself wantonly. 

“Mycroft.” His voice sounds blurry, relaxed.

“Mmm?”

“Do you ever finger yourself?”

There is a muted intake of breath on the other end of the phone, “Oh, I just saw you _twitch_ as you asked that. Yes of course I do, although I prefer it at the hands of another. Somewhat less awkward, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“I dunno, I quite like how it forces me to arch off the bed. Feels nice, _uh._ ” He’s moved his hand with more purpose to his cock, grasping just below the head loosely and running a deft thumb over the slit, spreading slippery pre-come around.

“Yes, I’ve observed.”

“Of course you have. Do you have a finger inside yet?”

“Mm, no. I’m waiting for you.”

“Hang on while I put my phone on loudspeaker.”

He fumbles one-handed for the button on his phone and deposits it on the bed beside his head. Next, he drags his hand up his chest to slip two fingers into his mouth, all the while keeping up the maddening light, steady rhythm on his cock.

“Shame I don’t get the sound quality like this, I want to hear what you’re doing,” He’s pulled his fingers from his mouth and arches off the bed, as promised, to make room for his hand behind him. He slides a wet finger over his hole and moans, “ _oh_ , maybe I’ll invest in one of those Bluetooth headsets.”

“I’m currently rather engrossed in the video feed, not terribly exciting for you I’m afraid. I could narrate to you.”

“That would be lovely.”

“I’m lying on my left side, phone to my left ear with my personal computer in front of me. My right hand is currently stroking over the head of my cock, and I’m thinking about what it would feel like to push into your lovely mouth and paint your lips with pre-ejaculate.”

“I bet you taste fucking delicious, would you hold me down and fuck my mouth?” He pushes his spit-slicked finger slightly in. Mycroft makes a breathy sound and says “ _More,_ ”, and John spreads his legs further and complies, groaning as he brushes _there_.

“Yes, like that. Do it again.”

“Bossy.”

He’s not at the right angle to stroke his prostate properly, and he squirms trying to get friction, trying to keep rhythm with the hand still stroking over his cock.

“ _Oh_. Tell me what you’re doing. Talk to me.”

“Who’s bossy now, hm?” There’s a pause, a breath and a wet sliding sound from the phone, “I’m working two lubricated fingers inside myself, and I’m anticipating how delicious it will feel when your cock is in their place. I’ll hold you down and sink onto you slowly, teasing, until you’re twitching deep inside me, then I’ll ride you leisurely until we’re both shattered, sweat-soaked, desperate.” He takes a long, shuddering breath, “However, I’m also watching you, watching you finger yourself, how your pink little arsehole is clutching and fluttering around your fingers and, _oh_ how lovely it would be to work you open with my fingers, my mouth. I’d tongue you until you were panting, pliant, and so easy to slide into it would be _exquisite_.”

“ _Christ_ you’ve got a filthy mouth, your mother would be ashamed. Tell me more.” A tide of arousal and liquid heat is coursing down his neck from Mycroft's words and he thrusts upwards into the circle of his hand, groaning with pleasure.

“The things I would do to you, John. I’ve been watching you drag your fingernails over your nipples, they’re very sensitive aren’t they?”

“Mmph, _yes,_ ” He moves his hand faster, harder, his finger moving in maddening little circles inside him.

“Take your hand from your cock, yes, that’s it, and tease your nipples a little for me. Oh, gorgeous.”

Somehow the sensation of just a finger inside and one flicking gently at his nipple is abruptly unbearably erotic, and he is filled with sudden urgency. He groans, sliding his wet finger into himself jerkily and squirming on the bed, giving his nipple one last pinch and sliding his hand back down to wrap around his leaking cock.

“Mycroft, I need to come. Are you close?”

Mycroft’s reply is breathy, panting, “Yes, and what a shame that I won’t be there to hold you open and come inside you like I so desperately want to.”

“Oh my _God_ , yes, I want that.”

Just those words have him pushed closer, he’s almost there, finger frantically reaching for his prostate and waves of heat thrumming through him as he listens to Mycroft’s breathless gasping on the other end of the line.

“Oh, I’m coming, _fuck_ , yes, oh, oh,”

“I’m going to watch you come all over yourself, John.”

“ _Fu-uck!_ ” He feels practically hit over the head by his orgasm, tries valiantly to stroke himself through it even as he’s writhing and groaning, listening to the sweet sound of Mycroft grinding out “Ah, yes, yes, yes,” at the same time. He comes hard in long pulses over his hand, his chest, his neck, eventually slumping back onto the bed, hand still wrapped around his twitching cock.

“Oh, god, fuck, that was incredible.”

There’s a long, satisfied sounding silence, then a drawn out “Mmm,” from the phone.

Once he’s recovered a bit, John gently pulls out his finger and gropes around for a t-shirt to clean himself up a bit. He’s too dazed to make a very good job of it, but when he’s reasonably clean and recovered a bit of brain function he fumbles for the phone, switching off the loudspeaker.

“You have a truly, incredibly dirty mouth. I’m shocked and appalled.”

“Yes,” Mycroft comments dryly, sounding unfairly composed, “appalled, that’s what it looked like to me too.”

“It’s a gift. You should write erotic fiction, it would sell by the truckload.”

If Mycroft could ever be described to _giggle_ then that’s what John would say he does. He charitably decides it’s a chuckle.

“I’d rather save it up for more selfish pursuits, but thank you,” Mycroft defers smugly.

“Your spur-of-the-moment use of adjectives is admirable. I’m a bit terrified of the prospect of you coming up with anything filthier than that, I’ll be honest.”

“Ah yes, and when you say ‘terrified’…?”

“Mm, ‘trying my utmost to get hard again’, pretty much.”

“I suspected as much.”

John turns onto his stomach and wriggles enticingly, grinning as he hears Mycroft’s contented hum on the line. He is enjoying this flirting very much, although he feels as though they might have gone about the whole endeavour somewhat backwards. That, he supposes, is the predictably inevitable way of things with Holmeses.

“So, dinner tomorrow?” If they’re going to do everything out of order, might as well do everything _properly_ out of order.

“Sounds wonderful. I can send a car to pick you up at seven, I’ll cook.”

“Brilliant.” He’s already idly speculating about what Mycroft’s no doubt high quality sheets are going to feel like against his skin as he squirms beneath him. _Brilliant_ , yes.

~

The next day John is in an unnaturally good mood, and Sherlock seems determined to sulk at the opposite end of the spectrum. His glares, once potent, now threaten painful death to anyone who approaches him, and he spends nearly all of the morning hacking into something dead with a butchers cleaver on the kitchen table, looking mostly like he wishes it was John.

In the afternoon, he starts on another “experiment” which seems to involve a lot of hitting things very hard with a hammer and muttering _delete delete delete_ under his breath in time with each stroke.

So if, at seven, John is a little late because he’s waiting until Sherlock appears so he can gleefully announce, “I’m going out to have sex with your brother, be back tomorrow!” as he sweeps out, he thinks Mycroft will forgive him. The look on Sherlock’s face really does merit being captured for posterity, after all. Thank goodness for hidden cameras.


End file.
